Souls and Sparks
by Burnedtoasty
Summary: TF2k7: Sam asks difficult questions, and apparently lacks all sense of tact.


**Disclaimer**: _I, in no way, shape, or form, own the Transformers© franchise or the characters it contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Hasbro, and the respective artists/writers/et cetera. No infringement intended._

**Continuity**: TF2K7 (Transformers 2007 movie-verse)

**Characters**: Ratchet, Sam Witwicky

**Warnings**: None.

**Author's Note**: Criticism encouraged, technical points preferable.

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"Why don't you just rebuild him?"

Ratchet frowned, hand hovering above the half-stripped remains, optics expanding and contracting in confusion. He tilted his head to regard the small human, settling the boy with a weighty gaze. "What do you mean?"

Sam assumed an apologetic tone, mumbling, "I mean… you're robots, right? Can't you just, I dunno, put him back together and… reprogram him or something?"

He danced back when the decidedly sharp tool in Ratchet's hand slammed into the gigantic table, digging deeply into the metal. From what he had learned of Cybertronian expressions, he was able to deduce that this gesture – accompanied by a fierce blazing of optics and a careful rearranging of features – meant he had done something idiotic, and had somehow offended the noticeably larger Cybertronian. In short, Ratchet looked pissed.

He took a few more cautious steps back, just to be safe.

After a time, it seemed the medic found out how to once more work his vocalizer, grinding out, "What ever gave you that moronic idea?"

Sam flinched, eyes wide. "I – I don't know, I just thought, I mean, it's—"

"Oh, yes. We could rebuild him. We could even install his core programming, download his experiences into a new mainframe." Ratchet strolled casually around the table, leaving his sharp implement quivering in its impromptu sheath. Prudently, Sam continued to retreat. "But it wouldn't be _Jazz_ that came out."

Against his better judgment, he blurted, "Why not?"

Ratchet stared down at him as if he were some sort of disgusting-yet-intriguing streak of goo, accidentally stepped on and in desperate need of eliminating. "His Spark was extinguished. We are not all programming. Do you think we'd be fighting this war if we were simple drones?" Ratchet snorted. "All the programming, all the repairs in the world couldn't bring Jazz back. It'd be foolish to try. His experiences, his knowledge – everything that was Jazz is _gone_. His Spark is _extinguished_, unable to be retrieved. To attempt to revive him… that would be cruel. To us, yes. But especially to him." The medic whirled away, stalking back to his table, yanking the tool free. For a few long, tense minutes, he worked in relative silence, dismantling the remains of their lieutenant.

Feeling somewhat safer, Sam edged closer. In all honesty, he knew he should have left right then, letting Ratchet cool down. But he was curious. "…Why would it be so bad for him?"

At first, he thought the Autobot hadn't heard him. But, a few seconds later, Ratchet sighed, shoulders slumping. "Can you imagine being born without a soul? Knowing so many things, remembering people and places and horrors unspeakable, but lacking any experience? To always be an imitation of someone else, someone whole – a burden of sorrow to everything and everyone around you? To _know_ there's something vital missing, something gone from you, and there's no way to ever retrieve it?"

Sam went quiet, staring at the remains. Then, softly, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

Ratchet snorted again, casting a dimmed optic over one shoulder. "No. You didn't know."

After a moment, the boy nodded, still solemn. "So… he's really gone?"

Ratchet turned his attention back to the broken cadaver, delicately removing essential components and wires and parts that had, once, been Jazz. "Yes," he murmured. "He's really gone. The most we can do is pick up the pieces, and try to stop it from happening again."

Sam said nothing more, leaving the medic to his work. It was all he could do for him.

In silence and solitude, Ratchet at last allowed himself to bow his head, and grieve.


End file.
